


Hatred and Heat

by AnotherAnon0



Series: Toxic [5]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Breathplay, Dubious Morality, Extremely Dubious Consent, Heavy Petting, M/M, Military, Period-Typical Racism, Rough Kissing, Russia, Situational Humiliation, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23887477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: Mikhail is a good man.Nicholai hates good men.~Nicholai's eyes shot open in horror as Sergei made no attempt to rectify their positions, continuing to pin him down, licking his reddened lips as though there was nothing even remotely awry. A tiny attempt at a wriggle did nothing, not even getting the older man's attention. Sergei's head was cast at the door, watching it as it opened to reveal Mikhail Victor.The Captain stopped short, eyes widening as he realised what he had stumbled into."I... I apologise for the interruption..." Mikhail said, swallowing hard. His discomfort was almost audible. It radiated off of him, undulating through the room, crashing into every nearby object like a drunken bear.
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Sergei Vladimir
Series: Toxic [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718308
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	Hatred and Heat

Mikhail Victor was a good man. 

Nicholai hated Mikhail. 

He knew it said something awful about him.

The older man had soft eyes, a genuine smile, and a calmness about him that was nothing short of _infuriating_. Worst of all, he was competent. Extremely competent. A living totem to dispel the myth Nicholai had clung on to that grace and efficiency somehow didn't mix. Having parsed his file prior to his arrival at the facility, Nicholai knew his Red Army service record was impeccable. Lengthy, honourable, and well-seasoned with medals and commendations for excellence. 

A call from Sergei was all it took for Umbrella to pay well for his release from the notorious Black Dolphin prison in Orenberg Oblast where Mikhail had been held on terrorism charges. It had practically killed him to make that call.

Nicholai remembered the nights he and Sergei combed through the dozen or so Red Army records, searching for high-ranking soldiers to bring into the UBCS ranks as administrators, Captains, and commanders. Despite ample connections, Sergei didn't want to draw from _Spetsnaz_ \-- the soldiers were too well-trained. _Too_ invaluable. The Reds were a grade below. Good. But not so good they'd get cocky.

He remembered laughing as abject horror washed over Sergei's face, turning the normally-peachy skin a sickly yellow. The Colonel had initially been pleased with his selection of Mikhail's impressive file, but when the gruesome details of the unforgivable sin of anti-Soviet insurrectionism popped out, Sergei had almost launched the file at Nicholai's head.

It took him almost two hours, and ample scotch, to concede that the man was unmatched in his military prowess, and that he would make an excellent Captain. None of the other files had even come close.

Sitting across from Mikhail in the large boardroom, Nicholai didn't think he looked like a guerilla. He barely looked like he had spent a day in that god-awful prison, let alone a year.

If anything, Nicholai thought, Mikhail looked like a kindly _dyadya_ who had stumbled into the very wrong place. Reddish-blonde hair streaked with grey, tousled to one side of his head. He hadn't bothered shaving before the meeting, or maybe he hadn't cared to -- there was a sheet of stubble pocked across his tired jaw. The wrinkles on his face mapped a nation belonging to a man who smiled too much, laughed too hard, and slept too little; crow's feet winding up to soft eyes that never seemed to stop sparkling with curiosity or amusement.

And yet.

The moment he opened his mouth, intricate knowledge about military strategies bubbled out effortlessly. Platoon formation and training composition -- it was all in the early stages still, but Mikhail was proving himself to be an invaluable resource already. 

The meeting was boring Nicholai. He began to tap his finger incessantly against his crossed thigh, playing with the fabric of his dark-coloured pants. 

"Why did you start doing terrorist acts, Mikhail?" Nicholai asked suddenly, taking advantage of the moment of silence that had gripped the room as both Sergei and Mikhail had taken to their paperwork. The younger man cocked his head to the side, knowing damn-well he'd just started a fight for no reason. The smirk he was suppressing desperately wanted to burst out.

Mikhail stopped writing, setting his pen down gently beside the small stack of papers he had been working through.

"I was not a terrorist..." The older man responded sincerely, folding his arms on the glossy wood table. Nicholai pursed his lips, shrugging.

"You were." Sergei piped up quickly from where he was seated, just beside Nicholai. 

"My wife is Georgian..." Mikhail said, his adams apple bobbing under the high collar of his thick, grey sweater. "The government was... destroying all the Georgian ghettos..."

"Because they were **fucking** anti-government **terrorists**!" Sergei bellowed suddenly, nostrils flaring in rage. "Georgian cockroaches!" 

Mikhail dropped his shoulders, but didn't respond. He cast his eyes down without so much as a clenched jaw to show derision or disagreement. 

Sergei inhaled deeply, adjusting his overcoat. A moment of silence passed in the boardroom before Sergei spoke again, fixing the fakest smile Nicholai had ever seen on his face. It was like it was moulded of wax.

"Apologies." He said. The moment he spoke, Nicholai knew it wasn't over. "I am just very passionate about mutinous militias attempting to fragment Russian society."

"I am very proud to be Russian." Mikhail asserted flatly, respect somehow still present in his terse voice. 

Sergei waved his hand dismissively in the other man's direction. It was a silent ' _shut up_.'

"I am sorry for asking the question." Nicholai said, looking over at Sergei, who clicked his tongue in response.

"Don't ever apologise, _Kolya_. **_You_** did **_nothing_** wrong." Sergei lifted a hand to caress the back of Nicholai's neck, causing a small shudder to run down the younger man's spine. Fingers started petting through his hair gently. Any other time and place, and Nicholai would have reacted to the touch in one way or another -- but now, he simply turned his gaze to meet Mikhail's, challenging its confusion with smugness. 

The door to the boardroom opened. A small, chubby head craned its way through the crack.

"Colonel... Sir..." The meek voice beckoned with a sniff, "Could you..."

Sergei sighed, pushing the thick stack of files before him that had been idly awaiting attention towards Nicholai. 

"Please review these in my absence." He said, rising from the chair with a grunt, "And no more _anti-Soviet insurgents_."

"Yes, Sir." Nicholai bowed his head and suppressed a smirk, eyes following Sergei until the door softly shut. Behind the partition, a rant about "knocking" was fading into the distance of the hall.

_Poor chubby boy._

Nicholai grabbed one of the manila folders, flipping it open to reveal the photo and basic details of a young soldier.

Height. Weight. Age. Nationality. Service details. Discharge details. Criminal record, if any. Commendations, if any. Special training, if any.

He thought it was not unlike selecting livestock for a farm -- they'd end up at the slaughterhouse eventually. 

Umbrella had purchased hundreds of these army records from different national corps at a price that was almost criminal. Panama was practically giving the intimate information away at U.S cents per piece. Mexico, Russia, even the United States -- wherever Sergei demanded the company send money, nondescript courier packages stuffed with documents began arriving shortly after. 

Once the desired soldiers were selected from their files, it would be easy to track them down and recruit them using the corrupt government officials and police in their respective countries. Sergei was ordered to populate a strong paramilitary, and this was one hell of a way to do it. 

Nicholai set the young soldier's file to the side. It was a maybe. 

Reaching for the next file, his hand twitched as the silence of the room was abruptly broken.

"He called you _Kolya_." Mikhail cleared his throat, but it wasn't out of nervousness. Nicholai scanned the words in his head, but couldn't sense any. Everything the man did had an authenticity to it that enraged him. "Have you known each other that long?"

"He was my superior in the Red Army. He took me with him to _osnaz_ when he was selected for service _._ " Nicholai didn't know why he bothered answering truthfully, or why his tone was more neutral than it should have been.

Mikhail's brows cocked upwards, a small smile dancing on his lips, "You must have been very special." 

_Special._

Nicholai scoffed, returning to the documents in front of him without a further response. 

Opening the next file, he realised quickly he couldn't focus. The words on the page meant nothing anymore, if they were there at all. The young soldier's photo was empty.

The clock on the wall was clicking softly. Nicholai cast his eyes to it, barely able to read the numbers because of the reflection of red-and-white logo that was glaring off of the polished glass.

Did it say 9:45? Or 10:45? 

Either way, it was late. And he had the sudden, uncontrollable itch to get away from Mikhail Victor. 

"I am going to finish my work elsewhere." Nicholai said, standing and scooping up the files. "If Serg-- the _polkóvnik_ returns, tell him."

He didn't wait for an answer, marching out of the boardroom with a haste that betrayed his attempts at advertising calm collectivity.

Sergei's office was a long walk from the boardroom.

Down a corridor that never ended. Up a flight of stairs that never apexed. Across a catwalk that overlooked oil-tanks that were never used. 

The tin of Nicholai's steps on the metal of the overpass stopped for a moment as he paused to assess the scene below -- the little workers navigating through the heavy machinery, moving tremendous, locked crates filled with laboratory equipment. It had been a constant for weeks. Not a day had passed without new, unlabelled shipments crowding in from Slovenia, Germany, England, China, wherever. All of them, branded with that red-and-white logo that had become synonymous with his daily life, were ceremoniously hauled underground by uniformed roughmen he never spoke to and never tried to speak to him.

The scenery was almost perverse in its gruesome utilitarianism. Military-esque. Religious. Grotesquely capitalistic.

Nicholai shuddered, resuming his stride. It was absolutely _freezing_. By the time he'd arrived in the Caucasus, responding to Sergei's call for assistance, the chill of a new Russian winter was well-established. 

He'd argued with Sergei, demanding more information before giving up his life to haul himself down to middle-of-tundra-fuckall, but after a month of prodding and whining, Sergei got his way. 

_"Is doing crap jobs for degenerates really a life? Hmm?"_ Sergei's voice echoed in his head. 

_"It pays the bills."_ He had answered tersely. 

_"So will this. More than I can now say."_

He'd given up his apartment the next month, arriving at the facility February 1993.

He hated that apartment.

He missed it so much. 

The day he left, he placed a bottle of good vodka on the alley-step of the building for the homeless soldier who'd carried him to sleep so many nights with those awful, off-key Soviet war anthems. He wondered if the vagrant ever found it.

Messily dumping the files on nearby lounger, Nicholai immediately moved towards the furnace that was at the back of the large office, one Sergei had told him had been reserved for the old manager of the refinery when it was operational. Lighting a fire with the wood Sergei kept nearby, Nicholai paused to squat before the flame, hands outstretched before the slow burn that he was desperate for the comforting heat of. 

He walked back to the stack of documents, grabbing a few and settling down on the intricate Russian carpet Sergei had furnished the office with, first taking a moment to unlace and pull off his boots, tossing them aside unceremoniously. 

Working through the files methodically, he set the satisfactory potential recruits to the side while reserving piles for rejects and "maybes" -- ones that would need more consultation from Sergei or Mikhail. 

Absorbed in the manila folders, he didn't notice how much time had passed, nor did he hear the door opening. But the voice calling out to him broke his concentration, and he was greeted by a grinning Sergei, walking into the office with an armful of files.

" _Kolya_!" Sergei beamed when he saw him sprawled out on the floor, "I was wondering where you had gone."

"Just finishing this." Nicholai muttered, motioning to all the documents spread out before him.

"Ah." The older man responded, tilting his head as he casually set the stack of papers on the small, round table just a few feet into the doorway, "I see..." 

A moment of silence passed in the office. The furnace crackled and popped as the firewood burned. The heat had been sufficient.

Nicholai didn't notice Sergei moving closer to him. Closer. Impossibly closer, until the Colonel was standing inches away from his face, boots on either side of his hips. He reached his hand out, softly playing his fingers along Nicholai's jaw.

Nicholai could smell him. There was that cologne. Lemons. Neroli oil. Bitter orange. And then... another smell. A much deeper one. A masculine one. That smell that comes from a man's hips, of which Sergei's were _too close_ to Nicholai's face.

Sergei's thumb combed over his lips, "You could have done your work in your office. No?" 

Nicholai shook the thumb off. "My office doesn't have..." His eyes darted to the back of the room, "... a furnace."

The older man smirked devilishly. The toothy grin of a predatory beast. Nicholai hated that Sergei could see through the lies he told himself before even he could.

Yes. He _could_ have done his work in his office.

Why didn't he?

Nicholai pretended he didn't hear the sigh that escaped Sergei's lips, trying to quell the heartbeat that was starting to echo through his throat and skull like a drum. Ignoring the absurdity of the position he was in, he brought a stack of folders up to the man's waist, "These all seem go--"

Within a split second, both of his wrists were enrobed by Sergei's massive, calloused hands. The grip was so tight he dropped the folders, causing documents to spill all over the floor. 

" _Kolya, Kolya_..." Sergei grinned down at him, "I believe you are being honest about coming to my office in search of _warmth_."

The younger man gasped when the weight of Sergei's tremendous body lowered to use his lap as a seat, straddling his hips like a saddle. With kid-like effort, the Colonel pushed the younger man onto his back, pinning each wrist against the floor.

"I just don't think... it's the furnace you want warmth from." He laughed, adjusting himself slightly.

"Sergei!" Nicholai choked, "Get off!" 

When he flexed his hands, he could hear the crunch of the papers he'd fallen back on. It wasn't loud enough to drown out the beating of his heart, which was only getting more intense as he gasped for air. Sergei was much, much heavier than he was. 

Through the chaos in his own mind, he knew Sergei was telling him to breathe, trying to calm him with slow hushes. It sounded like he was underwater, or somewhere far away. Nicholai could feel the man's belly expanding and contracting with every breath he took, pressing against his own. He tried to listen, releasing a desperate sigh of relief when it seemed he'd regained control of the air entering and exiting his lungs. 

Nicholai hated the whimper he let escape from his lips, cursing them for not better withholding the pathetic sounds clamouring up through his mouth from his throat. 

A rush of sound tickled his ears as his heartbeat retreated into his chest from his head. It was like emerging from a swimming pool. 

"You're fine, _Kolya_." Sergei dipped down, planting a small kiss on the younger man's forehead, "See?"

"F... fuck off."

Sergei beamed a wide grin, "You'll be my feisty silver fox tonight, yes?" He leaned into Nicholai again, rough tongue starting to trace its way across pale lips that had been clenched shut, massaging them a bit in an effort to coax them open. The moment they parted to emit the tiniest of squeaks, Sergei used the opportunity to plunge in and viciously interrogate every centimetre of the younger man's mouth.

Nicholai could feel Sergei's hardness pressing against his belly. Lost in the feeling of having his throat sucked out, he was sure his body was reciprocating beneath the Colonel's heavy hips. There were vibrations crashing through his stomach like ocean waves peppered with electrical shocks -- so intense they were almost painful. His eyes were rolling under fluttering eyelids, body involuntarily grinding against the incredible weight holding him down. 

He pushed his tongue against Sergei's, and the two mingled together for a moment, sliding along each other's lengths as a gasp tried to work its way out.

Nicholai couldn't breathe.

He desperately needed to.

He didn't want to. Ever again.

The confident knock interrupted the sucking and licking, the heat and grinding. When Sergei lifted his head lazily to glare at the door, there was an unconcerned string of saliva connecting the two men's mouths. Nicholai gasped and panted beneath him, shaky breaths that slowed as he realised what was happening.

"Come in!" 

Nicholai's eyes shot open in horror as Sergei made no attempt to rectify their positions, continuing to pin him down, licking his reddened lips as though there was nothing even remotely awry. A tiny attempt at a wriggle did nothing, not even getting the older man's attention. Sergei's head was cast at the door, watching it as it opened to reveal Mikhail Victor.

The Captain stopped short, eyes widening as he realised what he had stumbled into.

"I... I apologise for the interruption..." Mikhail said, swallowing hard. His discomfort was almost audible. It radiated off of him, undulating through the room, crashing into every nearby object like a drunken bear. 

"Never apologise, comrade." Sergei said jovially, words and tone betraying the scene, "What do you need?"

Mikhail held up a small stack of papers, "I had just finished those... platoon revisions you had asked for... I thought I'd get it to you sooner rather than later." His eyes were darting across the two men rapidly, "I will leave it..." He began searching for the nearest possible space to deposit the documents, arm stretching to reach the small, round table that was a few feet away, the one that was covered in the rest of Sergei's paperwork, as though another step into the room would cause the floor to collapse, "... here."

"Thank you, comrade!" Sergei beamed, his grip on Nicholai's wrists had gotten tighter. The smile that had been painted on his face suddenly dropped, and immediately, it was as though the switch that had stoked the plastic sparkle behind his good eye was abruptly turned off.

"Now go."

Mikhail silently nodded, quickly turning towards the safety of the exit, crossing the threshold with a quiet haste.

Sergei's gaze directed itself back down towards Nicholai, whose eyes had been tightly closed in humiliation -- a flush of shame painted over the pale skin of his face. The Colonel chuckled, sighing loudly. 

"Oh, and comrade..." 

The door swung open again, words grabbing it just before it had latched into place.

Sergei watched intently as Nicholai's eyes fluttered open below him, a small glare hidden behind the sheet of glassy outrage.

"You mention this to anyone and perhaps that agreement about the fate of your... _terrorist friends_ will suddenly fall through, yes?"

Mikhail shook his head, "It is your business alone, _polkóvnik_." He said quietly, turning to exit the room once again. 

_Click._

The fire cracked loudly. 

Nicholai could hear Sergei's breathing as the other man dipped down to plant a wet, sloppy kiss on his cheekbone, right over the scar he had given him. 

"It's _our_ business, actually." He whispered, rubbing his nose against the side of Nicholai's jaw. "And we have a lot of it. Don't we, my silver fox?"

"You're hurting my wrists." The younger man said flatly, ignoring the kisses that were being buried in the crook of his neck, suddenly pretending there was a way out of this.

Nicholai hated that Sergei could see through the lies he told himself before even he could.

"Excellent."

**Author's Note:**

> I love Mikhail. 
> 
> Okay, I am assuming that Sergei's position as the founder and Colonel of the UBCS means that Mikhail, as a or the UBCS Captain, at the very least was privy to his existence and that they interacted. It's just that Mikhail would have not been aware of the ~devilish other details~ that we know were happening behind the scenes at Umbrella.
> 
> Fair?
> 
> EDIT: Also, Nicholai thought Mikhail looked like a dyadya. Dyadya = uncle.


End file.
